Sweeter than Birdsong (28 page)

“No!” the usual contrarians objected, enjoying the argument.

“The Yeses outweigh the Nos,” Ben said.

His gaze fell on the lyrics written on the page below him. Should he? It might be risky—but then, he wished to change hearts. “This one isn’t complete yet, but I think you will like the chorus,” he said. He began to write on the blackboard, the chalk squeaking across the dark surface. “Let’s sing this. I’ll sing it once, then you sing after me.”

He raised his voice to sing what he had written. He pitched it lower than he had written it, and he sang it with a jaunty rhythm to increase its appeal.

Oh my poor Nelly Gray, they have taken you away,
And I’ ll never see my darling any more;
I am sitting by the river and I’m weeping all the day,
For you’ve gone from that old Kentucky shore.

They sang it after him, line by line. One or two couldn’t carry a tune, but some were natural singers who led the group and held the melody. Jimmy had an excellent tenor for a boy his age, which explained why he loved to sing. Music knew no social distinctions. Jimmy came from a family with nothing, but the mayor’s children would never sing as well as Jimmy did, despite all of their advantages.

“Excellent!” Ben said. “Now let’s sing the whole thing. Jimmy, would you like to lead it?”

“I s’pose,” the boy said, but the way he jumped to his feet belied the nonchalance of his answer.

“Come to the front, then,” Ben said.

Jimmy picked his way through the throng of sitting children, stood at the front, and launched into the song. The children were merry and loud.

They had learned it without effort: a good sign. And it wasn’t like Ben’s lighter songs for parlor entertainment. It was a keen song that struck to the heart of slavery’s cruelty. He hadn’t been able to save Nelly—yet—but he could honor her through his music and keep up hope. Perhaps it would comfort others like Frank, who for now must live without his wife and their baby, with no way to know what might be happening to them.

They finished.

“Thank you, Jimmy. You may be seated.”

As Jimmy went back to his seat in the rear, Sally Lefort raised her hand.

“Yes, Sally?”

“Who is Nelly Gray, sir?” Sally asked, her blue eyes thoughtful, her chestnut hair braided away from her face and waving down her back.

“Who do you think she might be?”

“Well, she lived on the Kentucky shore,” Sally said, ruminating.

“What else do we know about her?” Ben directed his question toward the class at large.

“I know, sir,” said Bobby Green from where he was sitting with his back against the wall. “They took her away.”

“Yes, good, Bobby. They took Nelly away. So who are ‘they’?”

That was a stumper. No one answered.

“I’ll let you consider it for a while,” Ben said. “Let’s begin today’s copywork.”

The younger ones opened their primers, while the older ones copied a stanza from Milton that Ben had written on the other half of the board before class began.

After half an hour, Ben stopped them. “Hand in your papers, please. Ten minutes for recess.”

The students were already halfway out the door, struggling into coats and rewrapping their scarves. Such a sunny day was rare for December, but still cold with the bite of winter. The bare trees looked forlorn outside the window, and the hard ground sported only a few wisps of withered grass, like an old man’s hair. The children poured across the yard, undeterred in their games and shouting.

As Ben straightened a few desks and prepared to follow the students outside, Sally met him at the door. “Nelly’s a slave, isn’t she, Mr. Hanby?”

“That’s right, Sally,” he said. “When I write the verses, the song will be clearer.”

“That’s a very sad song,” Sally said. “Why did they take her away?”

Better tread softly here. “That happens quite frequently.” He strove for neutrality and a factual description. “Slave-owners decide they need to sell some of their slaves, for whatever reason. Perhaps the crop isn’t as good that year, or it’s too expensive to support all their slave families. So they sell some of them to other owners, and the other owners take them away somewhere else.”

“They sell families away from each other?” Sally asked.

“Yes,” Ben replied. What else could he say? It was the simple truth.

“Oh,” Sally said, her clear blue eyes troubled. She turned and went out the door without another word.

The town council sat in conference on the other side of those white doors. Ben waited in the front foyer of the church, forcing himself to stand still. No telling when someone might come out to call him. He crossed his arms and braced his palms against the scratchy wool of his coat. He could stand like this as long as they made him wait. They wouldn’t see his jangled nerves if he could help it.

The mayor of a town as small as Rushville was unpaid, of course. There was no city hall, and town meetings took place in the Methodist church. These informalities did not prevent Mayor Bob Banning from assuming every iota of pomp and circumstance that he could squeeze from the position, as he was probably doing at this very moment.

One of the doors swung open and the mouselike face of Robby Reardon poked into view.

“We’re ready for you, Hanby,” the Rushville postmaster said, his white mustache bristling out from his narrow face like whiskers. He disappeared back the way he had come and let the door close in Ben’s face. Ben had to shove it open again to follow Reardon into the main hall of the church.

The past few weeks had made it clear that Reardon was not disposed to be friendly to Ben. Every time Ben went to retrieve his mail, the little old man shoved his letters across the counter and retired to the back room without a civil word. It was not auspicious that Reardon was part of the group that would pass judgment on Ben’s work at the school. At least Mayor Banning had been friendly enough, in a political way. But Ben didn’t know who else sat on the town council.

The sky was overcast this afternoon, and the gloomy light in the brick church showed five men seated in the front pew, their backs to Ben. He recognized Banning even from the back—the man was well over six feet tall and loomed almost a full head above the others. As Ben approached, Banning pivoted in the pew to regard him.

“Hanby. Come round here in front where we can see you.”

When he walked up to stand by the altar rail, he saw that the mayor and postmaster shared the pew with the new town physician and two men Ben had never seen before. One was a middle-aged, prosperous-looking gentleman. The other man was also in middle age, but was dark-haired, mustached, and fine-boned. He was dressed as well as the other men, but his heavy work boots protruded from under his trousers and gave him away as a farmer. A wealthy farmer, then.

Mayor Banning’s iron-gray hair and beard coupled with his height made him an imposing figure. He used it to full advantage, rising now to tower four inches above Ben’s own six-foot frame. He shook Ben’s hand. “Welcome. We will be brief here today, as our business is simple.” Banning seated himself again. His lanky legs stretched out well in front of the pew.

Ben remained standing in front of the council.

“These are my fellow town councilmen,” Banning continued. “Reardon, Dr. Samuels, Gabriel Lightman”—he indicated the nondescript middle-aged man—“and finally Arthur Lefort.”

Lefort. That explained the slight build and Creole face of the fifth man. It also explained why Ben might have been called before these men in the first place.

“So, Mr. Hanby.” Banning cleared his throat and shifted on the pew. “We have received some complaints about some of the subjects you have included in your instruction since your arrival here.”

Perfect. Not a word of praise, even, to sweeten the gall of the complaint. Not even a comment on the physical improvements to the building.

“Yes, sir.” Ben waited for the rest.

“I understand,” Banning said heavily, “that you taught an abolitionist song.”

The hollowing in his gut must not show on his face. “It depends what you mean, sir.”

Lefort’s face broke into a scowl as he sat bolt upright in the pew. “Is that all you have to say?” he asked. “You think it acceptable to teach a song full of lies?”

“The song describes the separation of loved ones by slavery, sir. That is an established fact.”

“That statement proves further why he should be removed from his position,” Lefort said to the mayor before facing Ben again. “You are turning the young against their own parents.”

Should he defend himself or remain silent?

Lefort seized the advantage of the pause and addressed the other men, vibrating with indignation. “Do you think someone with such poor judgment should be entrusted with the education of our children?”

So his position was at stake. He had to defend his actions. “I disagree with you, Mr. Lefort. The song is simply the portrait of a very common situation in the South. It contains no falsehoods, nor should it cause any student to disrespect his parents.”

“Nonetheless,” the mayor interjected, as Lefort fumed next to him, “a schoolmaster must avoid even the slightest appearance of political partiality, especially in times such as these.”

“It is a sentimental song from a slave to his vanished love.”

Lefort glowered at Ben. “But my daughter came home asking about things she should not be learning in school. Reading, writing, and arithmetic. Not slaves and abolitionists.” He turned to the other men, his complexion darkened with repressed fury. “He should be dismissed. May we call a vote?”

“Please remove yourself to the foyer once again, Mr. Hanby,” Banning said.

Ben walked back down the aisle with as much dignity as possible, though the heat of shame coursed over his face. Just before the double doors swung shut behind him, he heard a low hum of discussion among the men.

What would his parents think if he were dismissed? Besides the humiliation, the consequent gossip might impede their work with fugitives. He paced back and forth as five minutes went by, then ten.

The doors burst open and Lefort stormed out. “Do not think I have forgotten your family from when your father lived here,” he said as he passed by. “You will not succeed in what you are trying to do.” Lefort hurled himself out the front door of the church in a blast of cold air.

The others followed, but with no word to Ben. Mayor Banning emerged last. He paused, drawing himself up to his full height. “Mr. Hanby, you have offended some in our community.”

“Yes, sir.” Ben kept his arms folded and his eyes fixed on the floor, clamping down his anger like the hatch of a storm cellar.

“The doctor and I vouched for your otherwise positive effect on the school, but we were unable to change the decision of the council. You must pack your bags and leave at the end of the day tomorrow. We are only two days from the end of the term, and you will not return to teach here again. Good afternoon.” He left in another gale of wintry wind.

Ben sat down alone in the foyer and dropped his head in his hands.

Twenty-Nine

T
HE STAGECOACH RATTLED ALONG TOWARD
W
ESTERVILLE.
Ben didn’t relish the idea of telling his parents what had happened. But a peculiar peace stayed with him, as if something deeply right had happened even in the injustice of his dismissal. He did not feel he had made a mistake.

Last night, as he stopped in Cincinnati to wait for the stagecoach, it had begun to snow—beautiful large flakes falling through the lamplight as he looked out the window of the tavern. That snowfall blanketed the ground here in central Ohio. He couldn’t wait to smell the cider in his family’s home, to embrace his little sisters and brothers, and sit and talk with his parents beside the fire.

Cyrus might not welcome him. They had hardly spoken since their fistfight.

The stage rolled to a stop on State Street, and Ben got out, wishing a safe journey to his fellow passengers who were continuing on to Cleveland. They waved a cheery good-bye as the coachman removed Ben’s bag from the top of the stage and tossed it down to him.

“A merry Christmas to you, young man,” the driver said, his cheeks reddened even under his black scarf and hat.

“And to you, sir!” Ben picked up his bag to head toward Grove Street. It was the Saturday before Christmas, and the stores teemed with friends and neighbors finding last-minute gifts. Ben had always loved Christmas in Westerville. The Hanbys would invite their friends for the evening, read Christmas stories and poems, and join the carolers. His family could practically form a caroling party all by itself.

His boots crunched through several inches of snow as he passed the Lawrence home. Through their closed windows, he heard the merry tune of “I Saw Three Ships,” played with beautiful ornamentation. Only one person in town could play in that style. Through the lace curtain he saw Cornelia sitting at her piano, but her back was to him. Time enough to say hello later. He wanted to see his family first.

When he came in the door, his mother was at the stove stirring something that smelled of cinnamon. Willie and Lizzie hovered at her elbows. At the sound of the door, Lizzie turned and gave a cry of delight. “Ben!”